Movie Weekend
Because I am the world's greatest friend, I agreed to see Iron Man with Nate at Lincoln Plaza on Friday. After 45 long minutes of watching Robert Downey, Jr. morph from an idiotically-goatee'd weapons mogul with prominent nasolabial folds into the same exact douchebag, only also a robot, I gently broke the news to my movie companion that I couldn't take it anymore.
Because it is a multiplex, I was able to sneak into the adjacent theater to catch-- wait for it-- Made of Honor. Here is an example of one of its scenes that caused me to want to die. Patrick Dempsey is emasculatingly forced to take tea with the object of his unrequited crush/best friend engaged to a dude who is not him, and three of her bridesmaids. One is "Hollywood Heavyset"; one, we discover, used to date Dempsey before he dumped her, and the third is a quirky character actress with no other personality trait besides having bangs. The zaftig girl claims to be a Size 8 when the girls ask about dress sizes, a statement that provokes an "ahem" from the others, who know she is not, because she is FAT. I cringe and part of my soul dies, and then the girl whom Dempsey diddled and ditched asks the table, "Can somebody pass the Splenda?"
The product placements in these films, by the way, from that one to the part of Iron Man in which Robot Downey, Jr. demands a cheeseburger en route to a press conference, then unwraps a BK Whopper in front of the reporters in the next scene, are not as obnoxious as they could be, just because the crap around the ads is so miserable. There's little to sell out, I say out loud to myself, knowing I am definitely the first person in the world to be all, "Movies today!"
Anyway, so Dempsey passes the bridesmaid the bowl full of delicious, calorie-free, not-yet-proven-to-cause-cancer Splenda, and she ignores him 'cause she hates him. She says, "Can someone who's not a MISOGYNIST please pass the Splenda?" And then the bang'ed character actress started to stammer, and that's when I picked up my purse and said to myself, "I can't do this." I walked out and sat patiently in the lobby until my friend finished watching his movie about a robot who can fly and his assistant, Pepper Pots.
Then, last night, I went to see Indiana Jones.
If the script for Indiana Jones and His Crystal Meth were pitched to Hanna Barbara studios in 1975, they would pass on it, not because of its ambitiousness, but because it is far too implausible. "Give me a break!" Joseph Barbara would exclaim. "Now, let's see those Secret Squirrel dailies."
Guess what made it all okay? On The Town on TCM tonight. Gene Kelly makes you remember how easy it is to live every week like it's Fleet Week.
Because it is a multiplex, I was able to sneak into the adjacent theater to catch-- wait for it-- Made of Honor. Here is an example of one of its scenes that caused me to want to die. Patrick Dempsey is emasculatingly forced to take tea with the object of his unrequited crush/best friend engaged to a dude who is not him, and three of her bridesmaids. One is "Hollywood Heavyset"; one, we discover, used to date Dempsey before he dumped her, and the third is a quirky character actress with no other personality trait besides having bangs. The zaftig girl claims to be a Size 8 when the girls ask about dress sizes, a statement that provokes an "ahem" from the others, who know she is not, because she is FAT. I cringe and part of my soul dies, and then the girl whom Dempsey diddled and ditched asks the table, "Can somebody pass the Splenda?"
The product placements in these films, by the way, from that one to the part of Iron Man in which Robot Downey, Jr. demands a cheeseburger en route to a press conference, then unwraps a BK Whopper in front of the reporters in the next scene, are not as obnoxious as they could be, just because the crap around the ads is so miserable. There's little to sell out, I say out loud to myself, knowing I am definitely the first person in the world to be all, "Movies today!"
Anyway, so Dempsey passes the bridesmaid the bowl full of delicious, calorie-free, not-yet-proven-to-cause-cancer Splenda, and she ignores him 'cause she hates him. She says, "Can someone who's not a MISOGYNIST please pass the Splenda?" And then the bang'ed character actress started to stammer, and that's when I picked up my purse and said to myself, "I can't do this." I walked out and sat patiently in the lobby until my friend finished watching his movie about a robot who can fly and his assistant, Pepper Pots.
Then, last night, I went to see Indiana Jones.
If the script for Indiana Jones and His Crystal Meth were pitched to Hanna Barbara studios in 1975, they would pass on it, not because of its ambitiousness, but because it is far too implausible. "Give me a break!" Joseph Barbara would exclaim. "Now, let's see those Secret Squirrel dailies."
Guess what made it all okay? On The Town on TCM tonight. Gene Kelly makes you remember how easy it is to live every week like it's Fleet Week.
posted by Julie Klausner at 9:29 PM
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